Only
by stolenenchantment
Summary: Fred and George have always shared everything. Now, George has a secret that he's afraid to tell. But what George doesn't know is Fred has a secret of his own. TWINCEST. Rating may go up in later chapters. UPDATED
1. Hide

(A/N): R&R please! Flames will be laughed at and used to toast marshmallows; constructive criticism, on the other hand, is welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fred and George, Harry Potter, etc, etc.

Only

Summer fades in a distant swirl of color, the sultry damp heat of nights and scorching blaze of days dissipating under the chill caress of fall's temperamental breezes. The sky turns from a pure aqua dome to a mere shadow of its former self, the pale, disheartening shade of robin's-egg blue, and the merry green on the trees is replaced suddenly by dying red and brown. Days of laziness and relaxation are drawing to a close, soon to be usurped by weeks filled with endless study, strife, exhaustion, and my personal favorite – annoying teachers. As I sit at the window reflecting and brooding, the dread I've been restraining at having to leave these languid carefree days behind hits me full force and I press my forehead into my palms to try to shove it back down where it belongs. I love Hogwarts, don't get me wrong; it's like my second home. But here, at the Burrow, where I'm free to do what I want, where summer is still kept alive by memories, is where I want to stay.

We have a night of liberty left. It's not enough; I hunger for more, and the reasons why are simple enough. Late nights, sleeping in, free time to scheme with Fred about new products for the joke shop. He and I spend every moment together here, a good portion of it alone, holed up in our room so Mum doesn't find out what we're up to when we're making price lists or designing new things to promote at Hogwarts and start screeching, in her siren wail, that we'll never amount to anything if all we do is sit around and devote every waking second to pointless things like designing "ridiculous cheap toys". It's hard to make progress when your inventions keep getting stolen right out from under your nose and done away with.

I turn from the window then to check on my slumbering twin, sprawled out languorously on his bed, mouth half open as he breathes heavily in and out. One long leg trails off the side of the bed like an incomplete sentence. His expression is one of calm, restful peace, and I wonder idly what he is dreaming about.

He is so beautiful.

Even now, two months after I first realized I was in love with him, I shudder at the blatant wrongness of that thought. Fred is my brother and I am not supposed to feel this way about him. _Well, Mum and Dad did a good job,_ I think dully. _Raised me right. _I have a conscience and the guilt I feel almost constantly when I'm around him is bordering on unbearable, but I'm teaching myself to ignore it. I can't help myself, I love him, ache for him, _need_ him, and it's time I start to brush the shame aside.

It's too bad he'd never feel the same about me.

That's why I keep the secret. I am too afraid to tell him and be rejected. I am too afraid of the revolt that I know I'll see in his eyes if I ever decide to spill my heart to him. I cherish the relationship we have right now too much to risk it. And that being confirmed, I push my forbidden love from my mind – I can't brood. It tears me apart inside.

"Fred! George! Dinner!"

It's Mum knocking softly at our door. I yell that we'll be down, rising from my seat at the window to go wake my twin, who hasn't moved a muscle since I last looked at him. As I bend over him uncertainly, loath to disturb his obvious peace, he stirs as though sensing me hovering there, his sleep-bleary eyes fluttering drowsily open. We lock gazes.

"Dinner," I say, an apology in my grin.

He groans. "Do we have to?"

"Yes. I'm starved and I'm not going down there without you. Come on..." My voice takes on the coaxing quality that always works on him and, sure enough, he sits up, shooting me a halfhearted glare but obliging my request all the same. I offer my hand. He takes it, uses it to pull himself to his feet, smiles at me. I try not to show that I'm basking in his attention.

"Dinner better be good," he says in an unconvincing growl.

I grin again but say nothing and he puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me around, and pushes me gently out the door.

Dinner is a dull affair; we sit at Percy's end of the table, which turns out to be a tremendous mistake. We have to endure an hour of his arrogant rubbish about Mr. Crouch, Mr. Crouch, and, oh yeah, Mr. Crouch before we finally start whispering together, as inconspicuously as we can, about plans for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. At several points in the conversation his face is so close to mine I have to steel myself against pulling him close and planting a wet kiss right on his open mouth; then, when I've mastered _that_ impulse, using a herculean effort, I have to remind myself that it is not only impolite to stare (thinking this makes me smile inwardly. It makes me sound too proper for my own good), but it could possibly be a huge giveaway if I am unable to keep my eyes off him all night. Accordingly, I do not have much time to keep up with his ideas, so I am glad when Mum announces that it is time for all of us that are off to Hogwarts the following morning to go to bed. We go quietly. It's not as though we're tired but she never knows when we stay up to talk late into the night. My twin and I say goodnight to our family, Harry, and Hermione from the stairs. Then we close ourselves off for the night.

Immediately Fred turns to me and says, catching my gaze to ensure the honesty of my answer, "George...are you okay? You seem sort of – I dunno – distant."

My heartbeat pounds a violent rhythm in my chest and my palms begin to sweat as the automatic pessimist in me declares darkly, _he knows_. "Er," I say aloud, taking a brave stab at calm and missing by a few mere inches. "Yeah. I just don't want summer to end."

This, apparently, is the appropriate answer, because Fred pulls a glum face as he crosses to the window to stare glumly at the roiling, moody sky, the clouds it holds visible even in twilight. "I know what you mean," he says. "I don't like Mum nosing around in our stuff and I'm dead tired of Percy, but everything good about summer makes up for that. I love doing what we want when we want."

"Within reason," I add reflexively, "but I suppose being at Hogwarts will make it easier for us to invent freely."

Fred laughs fondly. "Without Mum in our way, yeah, definitely."

I go to stand by him for a moment and say softly, "Although I'm not looking forward to the rain."

We can never sleep when it rains. Something about it keeps us awake, instills an insatiable restlessness in us so we're left unable to allow ourselves to be pulled into sleep's clutches. I have that feeling right now, and sure enough, as I peer out of the clear glass panes over his shoulder, I can see little droplets of water falling from the clouds. The moon and stars are hidden, but I see clearly the patch of gray behind which the moon is concealed; it is lighter than the rest of the mass, which is an ominous, opaque, monotonous black as far as I can see.

"Great," I say, a caustic bite to my voice. "Perfect ending to a perfect day."

"Ah, it's not as though we were tired anyway," he answers dismissively. "Cheer up or I'll have to accidentally fail to notice you standing in the way of one of my excellent Cheering Charms."

I snort, taking up the banter. "If you can even remember how to do one properly, that is."

Fred turns, playful fury on his face. "Now, Georgie, I don't want to have to hex you."

"Yeah, yeah, or curse me, or anything like that," I say in bored tones. "If you're going to do it get on with it so I can retaliate." I make sure he sees me dig into the waistband of my jeans for my wand, and I know he is considering his options. What I don't understand is why his eyes linger on my hip much longer than my hand stays there. Before I have time to think about this he says slowly, "Nah...I don't think you could handle it if I decided to jinx you."

"Coward," I tease.

"Arse." Fred pushes my shoulder gently as he walks over to his bed. I follow suit, yanking off my shirt and tossing it to the floor before falling gracelessly onto my mattress, from whence I watch him as he undresses, not bothering to be surreptitious about my unbroken gaze; his back is turned, he can't see me anyway. My eyes follow his every move, taking him in, his beauty. When he turns slightly to throw his clothes into the laundry bin I study his profile, falling in love for the millionth time with the way his silken fiery hair tumbles loosely into glittering, mischievous eyes; his pretty lips, his toned, gorgeous body. He is a physical masterpiece and one thing is for sure: I do not see that when I look into the mirror. So much for – as Mum calls us "identical down to the last freckle."

He catches me watching him, grins. I am amazed to see a pale flush blossoming on his face. "What?"

I silently curse myself for my carelessness. It is too easy to get lost in thought when I allow myself to stare at him like that. "Nothing." _Yeah, great answer, George. Real convincing. _"Just thinking."

Fred adjusts his boxers, and I refuse to let myself watch. He walks over to the light switch and makes to turn it off, but stops with his finger poised over it, turning to give me a look that I cannot interpret. That gives me a shock; I've always been able to read him, no matter what. But before I can begin to freak out about that, he shuts the light off and, jumping catlike on top of his covers, he says, "Dare I ask about what?"

"I don't know, do you?" I answer, trying to keep my voice level. My heart is throbbing madly again, so loud I am sure he can hear it.

Fred says, "I would, but I have a funny feeling the answer I'll get will be a lie."

"Correct," I say with a sigh. "Sorry."

"No problem." I can tell he, also, is struggling to achieve a casual tone. "I've got a secret, too."

While I give myself time to comprehend this, a relatively comfortable cessation of conversation takes over. Then I say confidently, "You know."

"Not quite." Fred sits up and looks over at me; I can see his eyes shining in the dark. "I don't know what it is. But you can't hide stuff from me for long, George. I know you."

"Well, you're obviously better at me than hiding, or I'd have figured out that _you're _keeping something from _me,_"I say, an embarrassingly grumpy note to my voice. I can't believe I haven't noticed. I always know.

"No, you wouldn't have," Fred says, in a maddeningly wise, matter-of-fact tone of voice. "I only just figured it out myself a couple of days ago. Besides, you're way too preoccupied with your own problems right now to try to figure me out, especially when – yeah, okay – I am better at hiding." There's a grin in his voice.

I laugh despite myself. "And you always have been."

He flops back down onto his pillow with a little sigh, allowing another lull in talk to follow. In the sudden, somehow deafening silence, I realize that is has stopped raining.

"Fred?" I whisper, at the exact same moment he says, "George?"

"Yeah?" we say as one. Then, "I'll tell you when I'm ready," we chorus, and laugh at our synchronicity. I roll over on my side, suddenly very conscious of the fact that I'm tired; it doesn't take long for the rain-induced alertness to subside after the downpour has stopped.

"Goodnight, Fred," I say softly.

"Goodnight, George," he whispers. "I love you."

I manage to prevent euphoria from creeping into my words as I reply slowly, aware of what a very long time it's been since we've exchanged those sentiments aloud, "I love you too."

And with his words still reverberating around in my mind, I drift gently off to sleep.

Fin.

(A/N:) Let me know what you think! I have cookies! Lol.


	2. Seek

(A/N): Good lord, it has been forever. I have been working on bits and pieces of this since I wrote the first chapter, and I've got a good idea what I'm gonna do with the next installment, but for now here we go. It's a bit short, sorry! Next chapter will be longer!

Okay, and just so you know, Fred and George are going into their sixth year.

LOVE AND COOKIES TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! YOU GUYS ROCK! I'M VERY SORRY FOR BEING NEGLECTFUL!

Hide

We wake to absolute chaos.

The level of commotion needed to wake my twin and me from deep sleep is enormous, but our family has achieved the feat with flying colors. The sound of stumbling/tramping/running feet – depending on the various stages of wakefulness of our housemates – mixed with Ginny's shout, at an octave to rival our mother at her finest, of "Has anyone seen my Spell-O-Tape?" is so loud it could be inside my head, dancing on my eardrums. I have never felt so many complicated emotions upon just waking up in my life: confusion, disorientation, anger at being disturbed, and, fading fast but sticking in my head long enough to alert me of its presence, _ecstasy_.

I have to credit that last emotion to the dream I was having. It is falling away from me like a river over roaring falls, into mist and oblivion below, but I am certain of one thing: the dream was about George. His face is the clearest picture in my mind as I let myself rise from that undisturbed mystery world of slumber to grudging consciousness. This is not exactly how I'd envisioned the day beginning.

I don't have to look to know my brother is awake. He is there, a sullen, annoyed presence in my mind, but a presence nonetheless. His mood makes me grin in spite of everything and I sit up, raking my sleep-rumpled hair back out of my eyes so as to see him better.

Curled adamantly on his side in the bed across from mine, his eyes closed as though determined to force himself back to sleep, he is the picture of defiant peace, denying anyone who dares rouse him – anyone, that is, except me.

"Georgie," I sing lightly, creeping over to perch on his bed and watch him. He can never stay asleep when someone's eyes are on him.

"Go 'way, Freds," he mumbles, burrowing deeper under his quilt, hiding his face in his pillow to block me out. "Leave me 'lone."

He is adorable and it scares me how much I want to reach out and touch him, tug him into my arms, tell him that I love him in that impossible immoral way. I steel myself against the impulse, bite down on my lower lip until I taste sharp copper, until I'm contained inside myself once more, and try again to reach him.

"Come on," I say, letting my voice go low and coaxing. "I know you're awake."

George cracks one mutinous eye and surveys me impassively. Then he blinks, sits up slowly, and lets his head drop to my shoulder, a drawn-out moan of "Why?" spilling from his throat.

I let myself curl one cautious arm round his thin shoulders, siphoning some of my alertness into him while making sure I don't cross that barely-there line. It's probably all in my head but I think I feel him shiver slightly under my touch. "Because we have to," I say simply, knowing what he means.

"Okay," George grumbles. Then he pushes his face affectionately into my chest in what is almost-but-not-quite a nuzzle before drawing back, avoiding my gaze, blinking sleep from his beautiful eyes.

"I don't want to leave," I whisper, toying with a loose thread on his blanket. I feel like a child saying this but I know he understands: sometimes home is the only place we feel right.

"Me neither," George says softly.

We stare at each other for a moment, drawing strength from one another as always, and I find myself thinking I don't know what I'd do without him. I'd be stranded in the middle of my ocean if he wasn't there; helpless, drowning, solitary, nothing and no one to save me. He's like oxygen: essential to my life. He gets me through the tough times and I do the same for him.

He grins at me then, and I know he's been reading my mind when he says, "But at least I've got you."

"Same goes," I say, laughing and tousling his hair. He knocks my hand playfully away and stands up before pulling me to my feet as well. Then he brings me close for a good morning hug.

His body is warm and solid against mine, his skin hot from the blankets, his arms steady around my waist. I rest my chin on his shoulder and hug him back, knowing how he likes us to be affectionate lately and thanking every higher power that will listen to me for that fact. I can touch him without worrying about his reaction because he doesn't think it's strange.

However, I do have to control myself. After a too-short moment we pull away simultaneously, grinning at each other to ease any nonexistent awkwardness.

"So," I say. "Feel like divulging any huge secrets today, George?"

He laughs at my casual tone. "Mm...maybe. But don't get your hopes up just yet."

"Okay," I reply, figuring he's being fair enough. "I'm sort of on the same page. But come on, we've got to go downstairs. We've got to leave sometime."

**xxx **

Somehow we make it through breakfast, which consists of semi-toasted bread with jam and butter smeared in a visually unappealing mess on top of it. We scarf it as we pack, making last-minute trips around the house to make _sure_-sure we haven't forgotten anything crucial to a happy life at school. When we are positive we have every one of our belongings packed safely away in our trunks, we heave the suitcases out into the yard, in front of which several Muggle taxis are waiting, deposit them on the slightly damp earth in front of the road, and wait for the driver of our chosen car to open the back. We are about to shove the trunks in ourselves when the man steps around from the side and does it for us; we thank him, then pile into the backseat of the car, where there is an extremely limited amount of room for how many of us are piled in. I just manage to squeeze in beside George, who is looking very uncomfortable sandwiched between Mum and me. The expression on his face almost makes me laugh, but I manage to restrain myself, instead leaning over to whisper too quiet for Mum to hear:

"Bloody hell."

He makes a disgusted sort of growl at the back of his throat in agreement, mutters, "Tell me about it." We exchange an exasperated glance which is half-smile half-grimace, then I turn my head towards the rain-shrouded window, the abysmal weather displaying England at its finest, and try to keep every fiber of my being from automatically focusing on the warmth and solidity of his leg jiggling against mine. My attempt doesn't work; the pearls of clear rain racing each other down the window, the pattern of stitches on my jeans, the beaten, worn seat in front of me...they are uninteresting, and I cannot keep my attention to anything but him. Granted, this is not saying much; if Harry danced naked across the street in front of us with Draco Malfoy attached to his side I probably still wouldn't be able to concentrate on them, not with George pressed so close against me.

With this anxious string of thought ribboning through my head, my own knees begin bouncing up and down, and I wonder idly if he knows I am uneasy. Sure enough, seconds after I finish the thought, he dips his head towards me on pretense of peering out the window and murmurs, "You all right?"

"Fine," I mutter, barely moving my lips. For some reason, I don't know why, when we talk privately to each other we don't like anyone else to know what we're saying. It's always been this way, like an unspoken rule, and it probably always will be.

George leans down, trying to catch my gaze with his own. When he succeeds he raises one eyebrow slightly and whispers, "Sure?"

Of its own will, my mouth curves up in a smile. His concern is obvious and it makes me love him unbearably. "Yes."

"Your secret?" he says, meaning is that what I'm thinking about.

He knows me way too well. "Um-hmm," I answer, pulling my left knee up to my chest to stop it from shaking, watching him.

Nodding, he draws away as though to leave it alone, but he is smiling, so I know that's all he's thinking about. That wise, pondering grin doesn't leave his face until we reach the station, which makes me irrationally think he's somehow figured me out, which makes my heart start beating on triple overtime and my palms start producing enough sweat to fill small buckets. As we stand outside the car, ducking our heads against the steady, lashing rain, he catches my expression, all wide eyes and thin grim line of a mouth.

"Relax," he tells me as I haul my trunk from the back. "I don't know it _yet_."

He puts his hand on my shoulder to reassure me, the warmth soaking through my jacket all the way down to my skin, but all I can think about is the confident emphasis he put on the word _yet_. Like he's positive he can find out. Like he's not going to give up till he has.

**xxx**

On the train we find Lee and speak to him for a few moments before moving on to seek out a free compartment on our own. He's sitting with his girlfriend and we know he'd sorely like to be alone with her for a while; we can't blame him, he hasn't seen her since last term. As we walk along, wheeling our trunks in front of us, we glance at each other and understand: neither of us really wants to deal with other people right now. So, we decline offers to join friends and acquaintances all the way to the back, where we finally find a compartment that is completely empty.

We situate ourselves across from one another, him leaning against the window and sprawling his long legs out on the seat, me curling into myself under the stare of his unfathomable, half-lidded eyes. We are tired but as it's raining there is a grim prospect for sleep, so we content ourselves with occasional, desultory talk and long gazes out the misted window. About forty minutes into the ride he stands up to stretch, already restless, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and exposing a thin strip of pale freckled skin to my sharp, hungry eyes. As he reaches down to pull his t-shirt back over his stomach, his gaze wanders to me; I try to glance away, but I am not quick enough. He catches me looking.

"What?" he asks, grinning.

I can feel my face turning red. "What, what?"

"You were staring," he clarifies, as if I don't know.

To save face, however minimally, I lie. "You have a birthmark, did you know that?" I reach over and slide his shirt back up, a bold, rather out-of-character move even for me, and rub the small discolored spot just above where his jeans hit his waist. "Right there."

His sharp intake of breath is no figment of my imagination, but when I raise my head quickly to look at him, his face is impassive and I can't read him. "I do?" he asks, his voice a low, unsteady husk.

"Uh-huh." I circle my finger around the mark again, slow, watching him. He closes his eyes.

"Do you have one, too?" he whispers.

"I don't know," I say softly. He is trembling slightly beneath my touch and when I pull my finger away I can tell he doesn't want me to. I slip out of my jacket and toss it aside, yank up my t-shirt and stand so he can see better. "Check for me?"

George grabs my shoulder, using me for balance as he leans down. "Yeah. You do. Same spot." He returns the favor of touch, swirling his finger across the skin so I know where it is. My knees nearly give out from under me.

My twin drops his hand then. With a little sigh, he straightens, meets my eyes, tilts his head to the side. "I never noticed those before."

"Me neither." I don't trust myself to say anything else; he has stolen comprehensive thought from me and it's going to take everything I have to get it back.

We stand watching each other until finally I break the gaze to glance down at my shoes. I am turned on to no end, and it has just occurred to me that he can find this in my eyes if he looks hard enough. And right now, I wouldn't put it past him.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

(A/N): BWAHA:insane: They are figuring it out. Hehe. Yeah, it's not obvious or anything, but hey. It's a touchy subject, right?

Flames will be pointed, laughed at, and used to make dinner even more delicious. Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. More cookies to reviewers! I promise it won't take me a million years to update next time.


	3. Suspicion

(A/N): Oh my God. I'm updating again. :gasp: Can you believe it? I know it's been a LITTLE while but it's better than last time! Booya!

Okay. Once again, thanks to all my amazing reviewers! I LOVE YOU :blows kisses:throws cookies:throws party: YEAH!

So here we go. :drum roll:

Suspicion

To say that things are painfully awkward between us right now would be like saying that Harry Potter is only a little famous: a laughable understatement. We have not said two words to each other since the discovery of our birthmarks and I can barely look at him; when our eyes do meet it is by chance, the resulting gazes lasting several intense seconds each before we quickly lower our stares to the floor. For the first time in what I am fairly positive is forever, I am unsure of what to do with myself around him.

After several moments, the silence becomes a roar in my ears, pressing down on me like walls closing in. I focus on the wet tap of raindrops against the window to bring my mind from the dizzy claustrophobic quiet, but my body is still preoccupied with the lingering sensation of Fred's warm fingertips on my skin. His touch has been burned into me, invisible scars throbbing with desire, a now-constant reminder of what I desperately want but know I can't ever have.

It's torture.

I let myself look at him then, lying in a messy sprawl on the bench across from me, one arm flung back over his forehead in a pose of casual lethargy. His downcast eyes are fixed on the hand curled at his hip, perilously close to the spot where I touched him. As I trace the angles and juts and lines of his body with my gaze I find myself wondering if he is thinking about what we have just done, if it is consuming him as it is me. The thought process is both tantalizing and confusing, a lethal combination, so in an unusual move of precaution I end it. I can picture myself jumping him if I don't find something else to ponder.

Casting around for a new topic, I glance away to the window, hoping to find something outside that can keep me occupied for at least a few moments. To my mild dismay I see that everything has gone dark, obscured by the vicious storm, and the only visible things are moody, temperamental black clouds and wind-blown rain. Rather reminiscent of last night, I realize as I automatically check my brother to see if he has moved at all since last I looked.

I am startled by what I find. He is watching me with intent ice-blue eyes, his mouth a neutral, soft line as he sizes me up, unafraid. I want to look away but can't; I am pinned by his stare, and all I can think is how he could be seeing into my soul at this very moment, discovering things he can't know. A thousand what-ifs race through my overactive brain as we set the air on fire between us with this simple gaze. It's funny how one tiny thing can make my feelings this much more intense; afraid he'll realize, forcing myself to think of the consequences of this brand of unmentionable unrequited love, I break eye contact. I can't afford to be found out now.

The inevitable quiet takes command for another excruciating moment. Then he says quietly, "George?"

I swallow, raise my head, meet his eyes again while inside my brain screams for me not to look. "Yeah?"

Fred pauses, licks his lips. "We – um – we better change."

My heart, which has soared to my throat, thuds back to its rightful place as all hopes of a confession fade away into nothing. "Oh. Right." I stand reluctantly and reach up to the luggage rack to dig in my trunk for my robes, all the while feeling his heat beside me. Twice we brush against each other, the white-hot shock of skin on skin, forearm on forearm creating a jolting charge that may or may not be real. Either way I am bound by nerves and guilt: I can do nothing about what is obviously there.

We pull our jet-black robes out and yank them over our heads, then sit back on our separate sides and grin nervously at each other. After this exchange, somehow everything is back to normal again – well, relatively speaking. We slouch back into our benches, we look at each other as we talk about school, the joke shop, anything and everything to keep conversation going. We are both aware that things are slightly off between us right now and we want this normalcy to last.

When the train slows to a halt just outside Hogsmeade station, Fred gets up almost instantly, but I am tired, sluggish, too comfortable to care. I stay where I am until he coaxes me up, wrapping his long fingers like bracelets around my wrists and tugging me hard to my feet. Maybe it is just my twisted mind at work but I could swear he leaves his hands there for a split second longer than necessary.

We labor at pulling our trunks down, easing them gently to the floor and lending help when the other needs it. As we emerge into the throng of chattering people out in the corridor, Fred leading the way, I clamp a firm hand onto his shoulder to ensure that we stay within range of each other. Every year I am scared that I will lose him in the crowd and he knows this, so he doesn't ask questions, just wends a path expertly through the mass out into open, damp, chilly air. Rain splashes in large gloomy drops onto our clothes and hair, soaking straight through to our bones as we head to one of the carriages that will take us up to the school. I know we are in for it tonight.

**xxx**

At the feast we take our usual spots at Gryffindor table. While we listen to Dumbledore give the announcements, we bring out our wands and cast Drying spells on ourselves. The warmth I feel after being drenched is pure bliss, and I am focused solely on that when Dumbledore pronounces that there will be no Quidditch this year. That jars me out of my trance soon enough.

"WHAT?" My twin and I howl simultaneously, half-standing in indignation. We are not the only ones; there are exclamations of outrage echoing loudly from every table in the room and Harry looks as though he can't believe that Dumbledore would allow such a horrific thing. That's when the Headmaster, with the usual glimmer of merriment in his wise blue eyes, explains that the Triwizard Tournament is to be held at Hogwarts this year.

It's all anyone can talk about for the entire feast.

"Seventeen," Lee moans to us over dessert. "_Seventeen_. There's got to be a way we can enter, our birthdays are close enough, it has to count…"

"Don't worry, we'll find a way," Fred says confidently, brushing strands of shining hair out of his eyes with impatient fingers. "This won't happen again in our _lifetime_, I'd bet money on it. We're entering."

"Just wish we knew what we're getting past." I drain my goblet, then set it down with a long, drawn-out sigh. "Ah well. We've got a while to work on it. Think he'll change his mind about Quidditch?"

"I wish," Harry interjects from down the table. His brilliant eyes are morose, his mouth a downward curve as he laments. "That's one of the best things about this place."

"I hear you, mate." I shoot him a sympathetic glance and he nods, grateful for my compassion. I am about to ask if he's going to try to sneak his way into the tournament when Fred's fingers tapping on my wrist distract me. When I turn to him, he has his chin resting on his palm, his glowing face upturned toward the ceiling, which reflects the unrelenting storm outside, his eyes big and dreamy beneath long thick lashes. I can tell he is far, far away.

"A thousand Galleons," he says dreamily. "Think what we could do with _that_."

I can't answer. He has absentmindedly begun to stroke my palm, his fingertips running over every crease until I am sure he has it memorized. Since I seem to have lost all control of my voice box, I lean down and stare at him till he snaps out of whatever engaging reverie he appears to be having and looks back at me.

"What?" he asks, his voice confused, his face innocent.

I let my eyes wander to where he is still rubbing my open palm, trying to keep the amusement from my eyes and failing. To get out the smirk I know is coming I exchange a glance with Lee, who is watching us, looking as though he doesn't know whether to laugh or be scared.

Fred realizes what he is doing and jerks away like he's been burned. "I – er – sorry," he mutters, his eyes fixed on a spot somewhere to my left.

"Forget it," I say, surprised by his reaction. "No big deal."

But he refuses to meet my eyes and I can feel the awkwardness returning, spreading through us like wildfire, consuming our comfort and leaving only ashes in its wake.

**xxx**

As we get ready for bed later that night, the rest of our roommates already tucked away and half-asleep, we start the staring game. You know what I mean: one person looks at the other until they notice and glance up, then the two hold each other's gaze until finally one has to look elsewhere. We do this several times, taking turns to be the initiator, and on the fifth go Fred smiles and shakes his head.

"You win," he says with a reluctant laugh.

I grin, triumphant. "I always do."

"Do not." Fred peels his robes off and tosses them to rest over his open trunk, then does the same with his shirt. When he emerges from the collar, his soft, clean hair is adorably mussed, and it is all I can do to stop myself from gaping openmouthed at his nonchalant beauty.

Abruptly, he glances at me again and says, "So are you gonna tell me?"

"What, the secret?" Nonplussed, I take a moment to think it over, hiding myself behind the curtains of my four-poster while I change into clean sleep shorts.

"Yeah." He doesn't even berate me for my dim-witted response, no _well of course the secret, dummy_; no _what else did you think_. We're not like that with each other. We allow mistakes and that's why we get on so well.

"No. I dunno. Tomorrow, so I can run and hide after you've worked out what I've said."

We flash identical grins at each other, his exasperated, mine angelic as he comes over and sits on my bed, switching the only burning lamp off on his way. The darkness that follows is both taunting and lovely, making me bold and different, a person that could do things now I'd regret in the morning.

"Please?" he begs as I sit down beside him.

"Hmm." I am not committing to anything but he needs to move back to his own bed before I – to put it in wholesome terms – take advantage of the situation.

The night has changed him too; I can hear it in his voice, feel it in how close he sits to me. "Tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

I smile, sorely tempted, but for once common sense takes over for me and I refuse his offer. "What, you're ten? No, nice try, Fred, but I am long since past falling for such shameless tricks. Go back to your bed and think up some better tactics to try tomorrow."

He hesitates. Then, "George?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we okay?"

"Of course," I say, surprised by his words for the second time tonight. "Of course we are."

"Good." Fred takes me in his arms and we hold each other tightly, rocking back and forth in a rhythm all our own until my breath becomes unsteady with suppressed emotion. That's when I pull away from him. I know if we keep this up I will not be able to stop myself.

"I love you," he says softly.

"I love you too," I respond, my voice a low husk in my throat.

Fred sighs, shifting against me, and looks away. "No," he says. "George…"

"What?" I watch him, anticipation coursing through my veins. It is there, on the tip of his tongue, I can feel it. It's coming. He's going to tell me.

"I – "

"Guys." It's Lee, opening his hangings to peer blearily out at us. "Can we save the plotting for tomorrow? I'm exhausted. You're keeping me awake."

"Sorry," we whisper, but I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from screaming in frustration. He was about to tell me, I know it.

"Tomorrow," Fred murmurs. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I whisper helplessly back, and he is gone.

When he climbs back into bed, he does not close his curtains. Neither do I. I need to know he is there.

I lie awake until the rain stops. Then I fall into a fitful sleep, peppered with feverish, surreal dreams of his face.

(A/N): Darn that Lee. :guilty for the minor cliffhanger: Next chapter soon!

* * *


	4. Find

(A/N): Okay, so once again it has been forever. But, thank God, it's finally summer and I'm gonna have a lot more fanfic-writing time on my hands.

THANK YOU TONS TO ALL MY REVIEWERS: **anchovies, Faramirlover, Toadychan, Kai-face, Grace Adreanna, FaithfulPureLight, Ickle Youko, Yaoi-Freak1990, stormsiren, **and **Daniel**. Also to all the reviewers from the previous chapters:wavey: In answer to Char, yes, I am a Harry/Draco shipper lol – it's so hot. :grin: Anyway – I LOVE YOU GUYS:hands out cake and ice cream:

In case you hadn't noticed, the POV switches each chapter. So far it's been George, Fred, George, and now we're back to Fred again…I've wanted to mention this every time I type up a chapter but I keep forgetting, like a dork. Also, the rating is going up to T! YEAH! Can you tell I'm hyper?

So now that all that stuff is out of the way…

Find

I open my eyes to a cool, pale half-light, dawn's predecessor. When I overcome grogginess I realize two things simultaneously: one, that it is too early to be awake – I haven't gotten up before ten in nearly three months – and two, that I am _wired_. So, reluctantly accepting the fact that my chances of falling back to sleep look extremely dim, I rub curled fists over my eyes to rid them of fog, then sit up and throw my legs over the edge of the bed.

Stealing across the divide between George's bed and mine, I make my way to his four-poster, find the slit in the hangings that hide him from view, part them slightly to peer in at him. He is fast asleep, sprawled on his back, his tousled tawny head resting to one side, his mouth open slightly as he breathes heavily in and out. One long leg trails over the edge of his mattress like a path leading off into the distance, so familiar, yet undiscovered, for he is me yet somehow different.

I lean against the nearest post, thinking. I spend a lot of my time watching him while he is asleep lately, but that's only because I can get away with staring at him for more than five consecutive seconds when he's not conscious. When he's awake he always knows when I'm looking at him; it's uncanny, but it's part of our unusually deep perception of each other – twin sense. We know each other better than anyone else and we prefer to keep it that way.

I let my eyes flit over his face, the straight nose, his freckled cheeks and full lips, closed eyes rimmed prettily by thick ginger lashes. He is a crime that I can't let myself commit; the slender arms crossed over his chest are marked POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS and as of yet I've obeyed that law. As my brother, his relationship with me is the kind of perfect you don't mess with and if I did what I want to do to him it would break all our rules. Even so, I can't help but remember the way he looked at me last night, just before I almost told him everything. Like he knew what I was about to say. Like he wanted to hear the words spoken aloud.

Now I lean down and ghost my fingertips over his face, nearly bursting with longing. It would be so easy to just lean down and kiss him right now, but doing so would get me absolutely nowhere. I steel myself against the instinct and jerk my hand back, overly cautious for fear of getting caught, but before I leave I whisper,

"If you only knew."

Then I slide back between the curtains and walk quietly over to my trunk, which is situated at the foot of my bed, to get clothes and a clean set of robes. My watch is lying on the nightstand; I snatch it up and groan inwardly when I see the ungodly hour displayed on its face (5:45), toss it onto my pile of clothes, tiptoe into the bathroom for a shower. Might as well make the most of this unfortunate situation by using up all the hot water.

After I've finished I shake out my hair, catching the flyaway water droplets in a fresh towel, then wrap the same towel securely round my hips before I charge out into the dormitory, invigorated by the hot, sharp-clean feeling tingling inside me. Unsurprisingly, I am still the only one awake, so I refrain from singing out loud out of respect for my fellow sixth years as I dry off and finger-comb my damp, stubborn hair into a presentable mop atop my head.

Sunrise is just beginning outside; I can see fingers of glorious orange and yellow and scarlet beginning to climb up the mountainside. I yank on my jeans and go over to the window to watch the dawn break.

I sense my brother before he speaks, feel him before he actually touches me, but when he does, sneaking up behind me and placing his folded arms on my upper back, his chin coming to rest on my left shoulder, I have to bite back a cry. The places where his skin touches mine are burning up, sending warmth and voltage through my bloodstream, forcing my heart into triple overdrive.

"You're up early," he says in a voice husky with sleep.

"So are you," I counter, and George laughs, the whoosh of his breath hot on my neck.

"Touché," he allows, amusement inflecting his voice. "But you've been up longer, you've just had a shower."

"How do you know?" I banter lightly.

"Your hair's wet, you smell clean, and you feel clean," my twin recites quietly, so as not to wake Lee, whose bed is nearest to us. He removes his arms, his chin still resting on my shoulder, shifting just slightly closer to me. I am all too aware of the fact that we are both half-naked, that we are standing very, very close, that he is rocking back and forth behind me so I am forced to follow the power of persuasion and do the same. Each time we sway we bump into each other, sending jolts of heat and adrenaline through every part of me.

"You're good," I say, attempting to smile but focusing more on the mild but definite friction being created between us.

"I know," he says hoarsely, and as I watch our faint reflection in the window, illuminated by the ascending sun, he brings one hand up and runs his long fingers back through my hair. I suck in a breath.

"I love our hair when it's just been washed," George says with a grin. "It's so soft."

"Yeah," I agree. Daringly, to repay him some of the shock I just received, I lean back against him so we're pressed together and drop my head back onto his shoulder, closing my eyes on the pretense of exhaustion. "I'm so tired."

I can tell he's uncomfortable by the way his voice shakes when he says, "You could have slept longer, you know."

"What, and miss this?" I raise my head and gesture toward the sky, all faint but promising colors and wispy, thin clouds. "Nah."

George combs my hair back again, sighs. I think he's going to say something but then he stops mid-thought, reconsiders, rephrases or maybe just revises his question. "Did you leave me any hot water?"

I grin. "May-be."

"I'll take that as a no," George says, amusement in his voice. He backs away from me and all of a sudden I am cold, defeated, disappointed.

"But you're so warm," I protest in a half-whisper, slumping my shoulders as I press my forehead into the cool glass window in front of me.

At first I think he didn't hear me, but then he's back, his body fitting exactly against mine as he rests his hands on my shoulders. The heat of his palms soaks through my skin and I know I am shaking.

George notices this too. He plays with the ends of my hair and whispers, "Fred, are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say softly. "Just tired."

"Great way to start our first day, yeah?" he says, grinning, and I laugh.

"I guess. Listen, we've got probably an hour before everyone else gets up, you reckon?"

"Give or take a few minutes," George says, curious. "Why?"

"Oh, I fancy a walk before breakfast," I say shiftily. "Go take your shower. I swear there's hot water."

"I'm probably stupid to believe you, but I do," he says. "Okay. See you in a minute."

And just like that, he is gone, leaving me unsteady on my feet for the second time today. When I recover from the shock of him I pull away from the window, outside of which the sun has emerged resiliently over the mountaintop, and go over to my bed to grab my watch and remaining clothes.

When George comes out of the bathroom I am laying back on my bed with my arms crossed under my head, staring at the ceiling. I sit up, take one glance at him, and feel my mouth drop: he has caught me off guard yet again.

It is obvious that he has _just_ gotten out of the shower. Soaked, water dripping from every inch of his body, he is wearing nothing but a thick white towel draped loosely around his waist, held in place by a careless knot over his right hipbone. Pearly, clear droplets of wet cling to strands of his fiery hair and the same-colored lashes that frame his startling eyes. I can't take my eyes off him, but I have to, or he'll know I'm watching him.

Too late; I'm caught by his curious gaze. I manage to pass off my slack jaw as a huge yawn, but he won't let it go so easily. He fixes me with laughing eyes, a faint pink flush staining his cheeks, and says, "What?"

Giving him my best confused, I-haven't-got-a-clue-what-you're-talking-about look, I shake my head slightly to one side and say, "What-what?"

George narrows his eyes at me, but he is smiling. "You were staring."

"What, at you?" I make a face. "Sorry. I was zoning."

"It's okay, Fred, I know I'm hot, you don't have to lie," George says, his tone light and haughty and joking as he tosses his head and cocks a jaunty hand on his hip. A pearl of water looses itself from his lean chest and begins to descend in an almost perfectly straight line down his stomach; I follow its teasing, slow progress with my eyes as it finds its way along the trail of coarse tawny hair disappearing into his towel and try not to get a hard-on as I imagine what that soft white material hides.

"Yeah, you're hot," I say, mock guilty. "Caught me. Can we let it go, please?"

George laughs, but he studies me a bit too long for comfort in that shrewd, calculating way of his before he nods and turns away. "Well, I suppose," he says on a sigh, and I close my eyes, weak with relief. I've got to be more careful – this is not the way I want him to find out.

**xxx**

We roam the halls restlessly for an hour, making sure to leave back-to-school presents of Dungbombs outside Snape's and Filch's office doors. Both of us are wide awake and we are practically skipping as we make our way up to the Great Hall for breakfast. At the door he bumps into me playfully, grinning at nothing, and I bump him back, laughing with him on a level bordering on hysteria for no apparent reason as we slide into our seats opposite Lee at the Gryffindor table.

"Where you been?" Lee asks us with his mouth full, nodding his welcome.

"Ah, we had to give our two favorite people in the world hello presents," I say, helping myself to a slice of crisp, thick toast. "You know, just so they know we've arrived."

"Dungbombs?" Lee asks knowingly.

"_Never_," George says, mock insulted. He takes a big drink of orange juice, then adds, "But yeah, we just figured we'd start the year off one up on both Snape _and_ Filch – begin things with a bang –"

"You guys make me proud," Lee says, grinning lazily, his amber eyes half-closed. "And it's going to be a lot harder for Snape to dock points off us out of nowhere this year, seeing as we're too stupid to have made it into his N.E.W.T. class. But I was thinking…I'm almost going to miss Potions. It was so satisfying to torment Snape, detentions aside."

"Yeah, they were seriously worth it," I agree, propping my chin on my fist as I reminisce. "George, remember that time he was verbally abusing your Draught of Peace, so I blew the whole mess up in his face?"

"Classic," George says, snorting into his goblet. "The look on his face after he managed to scrub it off – priceless."

Underneath the table, our knees brush; all the heat and nerves in me congregate in that spot and I shiver. George looks over at me, a slow hot smirk curling up the corners of his mouth as he replaces his empty glass on the table, and shifts his leg over so our thighs are pressed together. I stay where I am, attempting to maintain some semblance of calm, the idea that he knows exactly what he's doing to me surfacing to the front of my mind.

Meanwhile Lee is perusing his schedule, which is more or less the same as ours, a frown marring his features.

"Ha," he says triumphantly. "Only Charms and Transfiguration today. We've got a free period now."

"And I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts," declares George, swallowing his last bite of eggs and elbowing me gently in the ribs. "Feel like roaming again?"

"You have to ask?" I shoot up from the bench, sliding my fingers back through my hair. "Coming, Lee?"

He considers for a second. "Mm…nah," he says. "If you guys don't care I think I'm gonna hang out with Liza for a while. I want to see her while I can in case we both get slammed with homework."

"Understandable," I say. Liza is Lee's girlfriend and thus far in their relationship he has been leaning towards the obsessive side of puppy love, something George and I are storing away for later, when they break up. We're like that with each other; when embarrassing stuff happens to us, we tease and torment each other until we get bored with the subject or something new and slightly higher on the mortification scale crops up. "Well, in that case – "

" – we'll see you in an hour," George finishes. Lee raises his hand in farewell; I grab George by the wrist, braceleting my fingers round his warm skin, then we take off out of the Great Hall. As we approach the exit doors my twin shakes his hair out of his eyes and the weak sunlight reflected in the enchanted ceiling catches in the flaming locks, creating a flash of sparkling golden light. I'm momentarily frozen, fascinated; then I get over myself and follow him out into the nearly deserted hall.

We walk in silence for a few moments. Then I say conversationally, "I don't think we'll be seeing much of Lee until he and Liza break up."

George nods. "It appears so," he says. "But honestly, I'm not that fussed about it. I mean, I love Lee, he's awesome, he's my best mate next to you, but right now I need – I dunno – peace."

"It's nice," I agree. "I like this."

"Me too."

We continue on, our steps in total unison, our changes in direction synchronized. At last we reach the Astronomy tower, which I know to be deserted until after lunch, when the fourth years have class. George pauses outside the door, but I swing it wide and walk right in, and after a short pause he follows me, shutting the door softly behind him.

I stride around the room; almost purposeful in my restless exploration, delaying what I know is bound to come. Sure enough, when my back is turned, his voice fills the air, an unfamiliar timid note in it. I am used to him speaking with likable confidence, not this new, strange timorousness.

"Fred," he says softly.

I sigh, turn, lean back against one of the chill stone walls. When I meet his eyes I find apprehension and a faint gleam that is almost hope there. "Yes?"

George hedges, unsure of himself, his gaze flickering between the floor and me. His uncertainty strikes something deep inside me and I open my mouth, sympathetic.

"You want me to tell you," I say flatly, to save him the trouble. It isn't a question.

"Yeah," he says, relief lacing his voice. He crosses the room to the desk and hoists himself onto it so his legs are hanging off the side, his hands curled over the front end. I can tell by his expression that he knows my pending confession is something huge.

Drawing in a long breath, then letting it out again in another sigh, I press my palms against the wall behind me, dropping my eyes to the floor. "Promise me something first."

"Anything," he whispers.

"That you won't hate me when I tell you."

He laughs, sure I'm joking; he thinks nothing can be as bad as all that. "You're my other half," he says simply, as though that explains it all.

Our gazes lock. I push off from the wall and begin crossing the room to him, looking away and then back into his eyes to keep his focus locked on me. "Well then," I answer. "I – "

The words are there, beating their tiny fists on the brink of my tongue, trying as hard as they can to make me speak them aloud. I can taste each letter separately, but the sentence is clinging to silence, and though my lips remain parted as though to allow speech, I keep quiet until I am right in front of the desk. Then I swallow, look at him, and say resolutely, "George, I'm in love with you."

The expression on his face fades to shock, his eyes going huge, wide as twin moons. Closing my eyes, I prepare myself for anger and yells, rejection, even disownment if it comes to that, but nothing comes, not even a gasp of horror. I let myself look.

To my complete surprise, he's smiling, his face a mask of disbelief and relief.

"I don't hate you," he says, and my stomach drops. "In fact, quite the opposite. I'm in love with you too."

Jubilance courses through me and I am overtaken by a reckless daring that propels me forward to lean on the minimal space between his legs on the desk. I raise my hands to his shoulders, pull him down off it, and he leans into me for support, caught in an awkward position. I stand back so he can close his legs, then press him against the desk, slide my arms about his shoulders, and capture his mouth in a soft, slow, beautiful kiss.

My brother grabs my waist with eager hands and kisses me back, letting me taste him as he tastes me, getting to know me in ways I've only dreamed about. I slide my hand up to the back of his head and weave my fingers in his silken ginger hair, clutching him to me. I hunger for him, I need him, and now that I know I can have him I want to stay like this forever. He tastes like oranges from breakfast and, underneath that, something else, something I can't describe, a taste that is uniquely George. It's a good combination.

For all the whirlwind emotions I'm feeling, the kiss doesn't last long. As it's our first one we're both a little shy, so we separate a little faster than I would have liked, grinning, looking anywhere but at each other, blushing. After a moment he pulls me roughly to him for a long embrace, whispering in my ear, "I love you."

"I love you too," I answer, my voice low and fierce with emotion.

**xxx**

We spend the rest of our free hour lying on the dusty floor of the classroom, our fingers twined between us, not talking, not thinking, just reveling in the giddiness of being together like this. I find myself thinking it is a good thing he doesn't want to talk; I am speechless as it is, still processing the fact that he loves me too. Several times I have to glance over at him to make sure he's there, to remind myself that it's his hand I'm holding, his body heat I'm sharing. When it's time to leave for Charms I don't want to go.

"But this is so much better," I whine playfully, allowing George to pull me to my feet with the utmost reluctance.

"I know it is," he says indulgently, grinning. "But we've got to go. We can do this again later."

I pull a face, then glance unconsciously out the window, where storm clouds are dominating the sky again, iron-gray and gloomy over the castle's many peaks and turrets. "God. It's going to rain again."

"Quit changing the subject." George raises his free hand to stroke my face, his fingertips light and cool on my feverish skin. I close my eyes. He knows how to get my attention.

"Now come on," he says softly. "Let's go."

I let him lead me out of the room without protest. As we start the long trip back to the common room to get our things we let go of each other's hands very unwillingly, knowing that it's crucial we keep this a secret. Incest is not something that is widely accepted in Britain - or anywhere else, for that matter. But somehow I have a feeling that as we start accepting each other more openly, as we get used to being with each other, we'll stop caring.

The rain starts as we're in the dormitory digging through our trunks for our Charms books.

(A/N): Phew! Got that off my chest. Now for the next couple of chapters…I don't think this will be _too_ much longer but I want to go deeper into their relationship - if you know what I mean. :evil grin:

Constructive criticism is welcome! Flames will be pointed & laughed at!


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